More Than Pain
by Verdreht
Summary: Ianto's always been good at masking his pain. With everything that's happened, though - Lisa, the Beacons, and now Mary - it's becoming too much. So when he makes a mistake, and the mask slips...can someone show him there's more than pain? Janto
1. Chapter 1

Pain was Ianto Jones's oldest and most constant friend. It was there to send him off to nightmare-haunted sleep every night, and there to wake him it in the morning. Whether it was physical – skin deep – or something deeper, it was always there, weighing on him, pulling him down until his world seemed to drag by in shades of dull grey agony.

This morning was no exception. Ianto was stirred from another restless night's slumber – he'd only just gotten to sleep an hour ago – by a sharp burning in his side. Or maybe that wasn't it. Maybe it was the throbbing in his head, or the blaring, beating _agon y _in his left leg. Either way, it got worse as he pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. For a moment, the room seemed to spin around him, but he shut his eyes tight and forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

And finally, when the world didn't seem about ready to leap out from under him, he pushed himself up. The pain in his leg intensified as he shifted his weight to it, and judging from the way he felt it shaking, he worried it might've given out on him. He was prepared, though – good old Ianto, always prepared – and the black neoprene brace wrapped around it kept it steady.

"_You see, the meat has to be tenderized first…."_ _And he was the meat. Fists rained down, and hammers and blocks. They fell everywhere, pounding his flesh, cracking his ribs, until a sudden, excruciating snap shot up and down his leg. _

_ Then the world went black. _

A weak, strained noise broke from Ianto's throat, and he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. These thoughts, these _memories_, just wouldn't stop. After Lisa, after the Brecon Beacons, they just wouldn't stop. They kept coming until he felt physically ill. He barely made it to the bathroom this time, before the sick forced its way up and he found himself kneeling in front of the toilet, once again paying homage to the porcelain gods.

For a moment, he wondered…what if he didn't go into work today? But he trounced the thought quickly. If he didn't show up, he would have to call in sick or else someone was bound to come knocking. If he called in sick, then someone would _definitely_ come knocking, if for no other reason than to make sure he hadn't come down with some sort of alien illness.

Besides, after the mess with Mary the day before, things in the Hub would be chaotic. Tosh either wouldn't show up, or she at least wouldn't be one-hundred percent. He couldn't afford to put them another man down, and Tosh….Well, even if the team didn't need him, he would be there for Tosh. Because he understood what she was going through – better than anyone, he understood, and he would be there for her as no one was for him.

But then, it was that way by his design, so he wasn't apt to compare. It wasn't something he wanted to linger on, either, so he pushed himself up, and started to get ready. The warmth of the shower helped a little, both with the churning in his stomach and the general ache, and when he finally had to leave it, he felt himself missing the comfort.

Getting dressed provided its own sort of relief, though. After tending to the wounds that needed tending, he pulled on his well pressed suit, fixing each piece just so from the trousers to the tie. And if he had to cinch in his belt a little tighter than normal, to account for the weight he'd lost – he hadn't felt much like eating of late, and he wasn't inclined to force himself – then he'd write it off as the remedy to those pesky freshmen fifteen he'd never quite shrugged off after university.

Pain was a constant companion, but denial was a close friend.

Shrugging on his jacket and checking one last time to be sure the bandage on his neck – _timetobebledtimetobebled_ – didn't show above his collar, he headed for the Hub.

It was time to begin another day at Torchwood.


	2. Chapter 2

Ianto was there before everyone else, just as always. Well, everyone save Jack, but he never left, so Ianto didn't think it was fair to count him. He had planned to start work down in the archives, but he'd jarred his leg yesterday, running to see what was going on when Mary crowded in. It had only been a week since Brecon and if anything, it was only getting worse.

He'd started for the stairs, only to realize on the first step down that it simply wasn't going to happen. His knee couldn't bend, and his inner ear was having fun making the stairs move back and forth like an escalator. Best save that for later on in the day.

By the time he got turned around and back into the centre of the Hub, he was just about ready for a second round of that morning's porcelain prayers, the way his stomach was tossing. He steadied himself, though, and instead started for the kitchenette. The others would be getting there soon, and of course, they would want their coffee.

The ritual of coffee making was a familiar one to him. The hum of the coffee machine lulled him as he measured out just the right amount of coffee, added just the proper amount of water; and after each cup brewed, he doctored the coffees just as each preferred. Tosh with cream and three sugars, to cater to that sweet tooth of hers; Gwen with cream and one sugar; Owen liked his with no sugar, but just a dash of cream to soften the bite; and Jack preferred his, of course, black. Ianto normally liked his the same as Tosh's – he never was really fond of the bitterness of the drink, more a tea boy himself (Owen would have been so proud). Today, though, he wasn't sure he could stomach anything, so he picked up the tray with only the four cups and carried it down to the centre.

It was only four stairs to the work station, thank God, so he took that first, bringing Owen and Gwen their respective beverages. To his only half-surprise, Tosh was there too, typing away diligently at her multi-screened computer. She didn't even look up as Ianto climbed the three steps up into her workspace, and only when he sat the tray down on an empty space at her desk did she seem to even notice he was there.

"Oh, Ianto," she said, pressing her hand to her chest as though he'd startled her. He didn't see how he could've – that was probably the least graceful he'd ever climbed those stairs in his whole career at Torchwood. "I didn't see you there."

No one ever did.

But then, he didn't come there to be bitter. Tosh was having a rough go of it; losing your girlfriend was no walk in the park. He wasn't going to give her a hard time for being a mite absentminded.

He gave her a small smile. "Your coffee, just as you like it," he said, plucking her favorite mug off the tray and putting it in her waiting hand. It was the first time he really got a good look at her, when she took it, and he catalogued the puffy red eyes and still-wringing hands. On the whole, though, she didn't look that bad considering.

"Thank you, Ianto" she said, taking a drink. As the drink left her lips, it left in its wake a smile that, more than anything, Ianto was pleased to see. He could be hurting and miserable, but being able to cheer up his teammate, and arguably his best friend, did make the day seem just a little less dark.

"It was my pleasure." He went to pick up the tray, and then, thinking better of it, turned back to her. "And Tosh?"

"Yes?"

Putting his hand on her shoulder, he gave it a reassuring squeeze and gave her the most compassionate, upbeat smile he could manage – the compassion came easier than the upbeat. "I'll be in the archives most of the day, if you ever need to get away from this lot."

Translation: I'm here for you, if you need me.

Ianto watched as moisture welled anew in Tosh's eyes, but there was a light to her face that hadn't been there moments earlier. "I might just take you up on that," she said, taking another sip of her coffee.

"You know where to find me." And with that, deigning his work to be done, Ianto picked up his tray and began the grueling process of climbing the stairs to Jack's office. By the time he even just made it to the stairs, he could feel his leg starting to shake under his weight. The pain which, distracted by Tosh, he'd been able to ignore, came roaring back to the surface, and he gripped the tray tighter to keep his hands from shaking. One more delivery. One more thing he had to do, then he could retreat to the Archives.

Regrettably, that was the hardest thing he'd done all day. He hadn't made this trip since Brecon – he'd been lucky in that Jack came looking for _him_ when it was coffee time – so this was going to be tricky, especially with the pounding in his head. Vaguely, he realized that the churning in his stomach had kicked back up, but he was working really hard to ignore it as he ascended the flight to Jack's office step by painful step.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth. _He repeated it in his head like a mantra, straining to keep his face impassive as he walked, but his heart was beating so fast in his chest, and each heartbeat was like a drum sounding inside his skull, loud and booming. He could feel it pounding on his bruised and broken ribs like it was trying to break out of them or something.

_One step at a time, almost there. Just one step at a time._

And in fact, he was. With one last step, he made it up onto Jack's floor.

_Just give him his coffee and leave. Almost done. I can do this._ But as he walked stiffly into Jack's office, he could feel he was losing the battle quickly.

"Your coffee, sir," he said, and even just the one comment nearly made him lose his tenuous control on his stomach.

Jack looked up from the folder he'd been perusing at his desk right as Ianto sat the coffee down on it. Instead of just accepting the coffee like the others had, though, he stood, coming around his desk and taking the tray from Ianto's hands. He sat that on the desk as well. "Morning, Ianto," he said, leaning back against the desk.

The greeting was casual enough, but there was something in those blue eyes of Jack's – something sharp and searching.

Ianto wished it would stop. He felt sick, and his vision was starting to blur, black creeping in around the edges so that he felt as if it was all going dark. And his stomach…Christ, he was going to be sick.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

"Ianto, are you okay?" Jack started to put a hand on his face. Ianto wasn't paying attention, though, so the movement caught him by surprised. He flinched, jerking backwards, and that one movement set it off. When he jerked back, he stepped onto his bad leg; he tossed his head to avoid the hand, setting his brain rattling against his skull. The combination of the two sent him careening back, and he hit the floor hard on his ass. Falling seemed to jar every single injury on his battered body, sending waves of agony ripping through him, and he let out a startled, pained cry.

The cry was cut short, though, as sick forced its way up his throat. He barely had time to roll over onto his hands and knees before he was retching on the floor of Jack's office. Normally, he would've been mortified, but he didn't have it in him to be much of anything.

Just when there was nothing left to throw up, he felt a gentle hand on his back. He was disoriented, though. All he could feel were grimy hands, gripping him choking him like the sick still trying to worm its way up his throat. And the pain, God the pain. He almost couldn't see through it.

_Time to be bled…makes the meat taste better. _

With a cry, Ianto threw himself back, scrambling in an awkward crab crawl, left leg dragging behind him, until he hit the cold brick wall on the far side of Jack's office.

As the black closed in around his sight and the pounding in his head muffled everything else to a deafening, nonsensical roar in his ears, Ianto curled in on himself. He was supposed to be better than this, supposed to be able to hide the things that no one else could. This was just too much, though. It hurt too much: his gut, his leg, his head, his _everywhere_.

And suddenly, there were hands on his face, caressing his cheeks, and there was nowhere he could go. Slowly, his eyes came to focus on the face in front of him, through blurs that had nothing to do with fading consciousness and everything to do with the tears that had begun to flow sometime from his eyes. There was a sort of panic in those blue eyes, the ones that stared at him as lips moved but words came undiscernibly, but there was also a strength there.

"Ianto, what's wrong?" Jack asked, kneeling in front of the disoriented Welshman and pressing his hands on either side of his face. He was alarmed at the heat there – Ianto had a fever, and a bad one at that, but he got the feeling there was more to this than that. "Ianto! Look at me." His eyes were darting everywhere, wild and unfocused, and Jack wasn't sure he knew where he was. As for Jack, all he knew was that something was wrong with Ianto, and that was more than enough to set his heart to pounding.

Suddenly, there was a spark of recognition, and Ianto's hand came to grasp one of Jack's. "Jack," he whispered, and then his eyes widened. "Jack," he repeated. "Oh God, I—"

"Shh," Jack hushed him, wrapping his arms around Ianto's slimmer-than-usual frame and pulling him close. He noticed, then, that Ianto was shaking. "Ianto, I need you to tell me what's wrong."

Jack hadn't meant to, but he'd apparently said something wrong. Ianto pushed him away, all flailing limbs and unsteady hands, and he started trying to push himself up. He kept slipping, though, his dress shoes unable to get purchase on the concrete floor. Or, Jack supposed, _shoe_ in the singular form, because for some reason, Ianto's left leg didn't appear to be moving. Ianto kept trying, though, his hands scrambling up the brick trying to pull himself up.

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "I'm fine."

Clearly, he wasn't.

"Ianto, take it easy. You're not fine, but you will be. You just need to tell me what's wrong," Jack said. He wasn't going to let Ianto get up, and to keep him from trying, he grabbed his wrists, pulling them towards himself as Ianto tried frantically to get loose. "Owen!" Jack shouted.

The noise fractured in Ianto's ringing ears, and he tried harder to pull his hands back from Jack's grip. He needed to get up. He just needed to get up and get down to the Archives, and everything would be okay.

"I have to go," he pleaded. "I need to work."

Jack stared at him. "Ianto, you just collapsed on my office floor. You're not going anywhere." Ianto wasn't even making sense; he couldn't even stand up, and he was shaking so hard Jack could almost hear his teeth chattering. Whatever was going on, though, it was upsetting Ianto, and that was hurting Jack. He'd never seen him looking so scared – at least, never except the Beacons….Regardless, he had to get him calmed down. He was panicking, and he was going to hurt himself. "Shh," Jack tried again, and even as Ianto struggled, he pulled him close, rocking him back and forth. "It's okay, Yan. You're safe now; I've got you."

The sincerity in his voice, the kindness, the _caring_ there…it caught Ianto off guard, and suddenly, he couldn't hold it back anymore. He was hurting so much, had been for so long, this single act of kindness – the strong, gentle arms wrapped around him and the feather light kisses on his head – was enough to break the proverbial dam. Ianto broke down, then, his tears soaking through the fabric of Jack's blue collared shirt. "It hurts," he whispered, his voice trembling so much it scarcely came out at all. "Please, Jack, it hurts so much."

The pure unbridled pain in his voice hit Jack hard. It was heartbreaking, seeing the one he cared about, the one he _loved_, in so much agony. With tears of his own burning at his eyes, Jack continued to rock him forwards and back, rubbing his back gently. "It's going to be okay," he soothed, running gentle fingers through Ianto's sweat-dampened hair. "I'm going to make it stop hurting."

There were footsteps at the door, and then, "Holy hell." Owen was there now, and immediately, he ran over to the two of them, skillfully avoiding the puddle of sick on the floor.

Ianto saw him and started to squirm again, but Jack held him firm. "It's just Owen, Yan. He's going to have a look at you, okay?"

"What happened?" Owen demanded, kneeling on the other side of Ianto.

"I don't know," Jack answered honestly. "He just collapsed. I think he's hurt."

Since Jack didn't have any answers, it was time for Owen's skills to take over. Somehow, he found a break in Jack's limbs and Ianto's huddled defenses, and pressed his fingers to the side of Ianto's neck, just under his jaw. "Jesus, his heart's beating a mile a minute. Ianto, can you tell me what happened?"

Ianto shook his head, only to stop and clench his fingers in his hair when the motion brought the dizziness back full tilt.

Jack and Owen shared a glance. "All right, then, let's have a look at you."


	3. Chapter 3

Jack stood by the morgue bed, anxiously watching its occupant. He'd passed out the moment they tried to move him back in Jack's office, and since then, Owen had given him enough sedatives to know him flat for a few hours at the very least. It came in handy during Owen's examination – he'd had to strip Ianto down to his knickers, and Jack somehow got the feeling that wasn't something the Welshman would allow if he were conscious.

To say he was troubled by what Owen had found during said examination would be an understatement of universal proportions. He had been right in thinking that Ianto was hurt; he just hadn't had any idea just _how_ hurt Ianto was. Owen had judged the wounds, for the most part, to be about a week old. Seemed Ianto had suffered more than just the face-pulping they'd treated him for, complete with concussion, and Jack found himself wishing he hadn't accepted Ianto's assurances that that was all they'd done.

No, it was far worse than the bruised face. From the head down, he had a cut across his neck, neatly stitched and bandaged – that had been Owen's handiwork. The rest of it, though, had been done by someone else. No doubt one of Ianto's endless "contacts." His shoulder was bruised, and the bruise extended all the way down the right side of his torso, a large, angry mark that changed from blue to green to purple, to a cruel red at the very center, hovering right over his ribs. Three broken, Owen had said, and two cracked.

He was cut, too. There was a deep gash stretching from just inside his right hip bone, diagonally up and around his side to his back, only an inch or two from his spine. It, too, had been stitched neatly, but nearly half of those stitches were torn, and the wound was infected. Owen had had to cut away some of the tissue and redo all the stitches, though, at least they knew where the fever had come from now.

Of all of it, though, the worst was Ianto's leg. They'd found a brace around his left knee when they pulled off his trousers, and when Owen had taken it off, it revealed a singular massive bruise that stretched from his mid-calf all the way up his thigh. According to Owen, nothing was broken, though an x-ray revealed cracks in his femur and patella. The injury was mostly in the collateral ligaments – the ligaments inside and outside the knee, Owen had kindly explained. It was likely he'd gotten kicked in the knee sometime, and it had torn the ligament badly. If Jack were to venture a guess, he'd say it happened sometime during Ianto's capture in the Beacons.

And Ianto hadn't said anything. Not a damn word, and that _terrified_ Jack. Had Ianto felt he couldn't trust them? Had he been too scared? Too upset? He hadn't been the same since Lisa. Even if Ianto thought no one had seen, Jack had. He'd just…he'd hoped Ianto would come to him.

A sudden movement on the bed caught Jack's attention, and he was beside it in an instant as sleepy eyes slowly blinked open. Out of focus, they rolled around the room before finally settling on Jack, and suddenly, Ianto gave a start.

As soon as he heard Ianto's gasp, Jack grabbed him, effectively pinning him to the table so that he couldn't move, despite the straps holding his wrists and ankles in place. He didn't want him undoing any of Owen's hard work, after all.

"Easy, easy," he soothed as the heart monitor beside him beeped a rapidly growing pace. It seemed even the sedatives weren't enough to soothe the panic plaguing the team's youngest member. Jack hushed him, running a gentle hand through Ianto's hair.

After a moment, Ianto went still, his eyebrows knotting in confusion. "Jack," he began, and Jack winced as his voice cracked. It was raw, either from disuse or from his vomiting session earlier. "What…what's going on?" Jack could tell he was still messed up from the sedatives, what with the way his head kept lolling and his eyes could never seem to focus just right. He was fading fast, his eyelids sliding closed only to be forced open by a mix of desperation and confusion. Ianto was still so, so scared, even if he was no longer showing it.

He forced a smile, brushing his thumb across Ianto's tear-stained cheek. The moisture had long-since dried, but the tracks still remained. "It's okay, Yan, just get some more sleep."

Ianto blinked again. "No," he protested weakly. "I'm not…I don't…" He couldn't get the words together, and, frustrated, he started trying to sit up again, only to realize that he had been restrained. "Jack?"

It broke Jack's heart to hear the edge of fear that laced that question. Ianto didn't like being restrained, and after what had happened back in the Beacons, he knew that it was justified. He wasn't too fond of it, personally, and he hadn't been tied up and nearly bled like an animal by some cannibalistic hick.

Not recently, anyhow.

He tilted Ianto's chin up so that the younger man could only look at him, and not at the restraints or the morgue bed or anything else that might've scared him. "Don't worry about that, okay? You're tired; get some sleep. I won't let anything bad happen to you."

After a moment, Ianto's head dipped in a weak approximation of a nod, and finally, his eyes slid closed. Jack thought he'd fallen asleep, but then Ianto's lips parted and a breath of air left them. No, not a breath of air, but a word. _Words_.

"I'm sorry…."

Jack's heart gave a painful wrench, and he brushed his fingers across Ianto's still-bruised cheek. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Yan," he told him. But Ianto was already asleep.

Pressing one last soft kiss to Ianto's fevered forehead, Jack stood back up, straightened up Ianto's covers, and left to go make arrangements with Owen. Ianto couldn't stay in the morgue forever, and he'd personally found that transporting an injured person was best done while they were heavily medicated.

Ianto was warm. He didn't know quite why – last he could remember, he was on the floor of Jack's office. Wait, but no, then he was in a bed. Only, the bed wasn't a bed, it was a table, and the table was in the morgue.

But this was neither a floor or a table, of that he was certain. No, the feel of the linens on his skin was soothingly familiar, and the surface beneath him was so much softer than either of those had been. He himself felt a little fuzzy too, like he'd been emptied out and stuffed with feathers, and all his edges had been smudged and blurred. There was pain, but it wasn't sharp, more just a steady thumping at the edge of his consciousness.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a very familiar ceiling. His ceiling. In his flat.

How did he get in his flat?

Rationally, he knew that someone probably brought him here – Jack or Owen, if he had to venture a guess – but ration and disorientation didn't really mix. And…if they had brought him here, and they obviously weren't there now…well, then, had they just left him? Just dropped him off and left him there like rubbish. He'd thought…well, he remembered back at the Hub, for a moment, Jack had held him, and he thought….

Shaking his head, Ianto started to push himself up, only to freeze. The pain at the edge of his consciousness suddenly rushed to the front of it, and all the air left him in a gasp as he fell back on the bed. He tried to curl in on himself, only to find he met resistance.

"Hey, hey, you shouldn't be moving just yet."

Ianto knew that voice, knew those hands that were pressing down on his shoulders. He knew them.

Jack.

Ianto tried to sit up, then. He felt exposed, vulnerable just lying there like that. He wanted to sit up.

…Only, wanting something, and having the potential to do it, were two different things entirely. As soon as he tensed the muscles in his stomach, another wave of pain struck him hard, and he couldn't keep back the gasp that escaped his lips.

"Stop moving, you silly Welshman," Jack commanded, those strong, warm hands of his going to push Ianto's shoulders down back down to the plushy mattress.

A weight settled next to him, and Ianto turned his head to see Jack sitting on the bed next to him, a comforting smile on his face. "What are you…?"

"Doing here?" Jack finished for him. "Taking care of you. Or, at least, trying to." Jack pressed the back of his hand to Ianto's cheek, and Ianto instinctively flinched. "It's okay, Yan, I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed, and Ianto nodded weakly.

And promptly tried to sit up again. This time, though, the pain flared up worse than ever, and he paled. "What the hell did you do?" he demanded through grit teeth, wrapping his arms around his aching belly. It wasn't just sharp pain, and it wasn't just dull pain, but a combination of both that made his stomach flip painfully and his lungs.

Jack's eyebrows pulled together and he rested a hand on the covers over Ianto's stomach. The faint pressure, oddly, made it feel just a little better. "We didn't do anything," he said. "They're the same injuries you've been hiding for a week now."

Ianto didn't miss the subtle bite in the comment, the hidden hurt, and he was torn between feeling guilty and vindicated.

"Didn't hurt so bad before…," he mumbled.

"It wasn't quite as infected, before, and Owen hadn't had to cut stitches and dead tissue out of you then. I don't imagine getting sick did great things for your ribs, either."

Ianto was suddenly mortified. "Oh God, did I…?"

Jack nodded. "All over my office floor," he said. Then, though, he realized that Ianto was really kind of upset about it. "Hey, don't worry about it. The others've got to have something to do to keep them occupied while I'm away."

As much as he wanted to, Ianto was too tired to argue, so he just let his head dip in the closest approximation of a nod he could muster.

It seemed Jack could tell – those blue eyes always felt like they could see right through Ianto – because he pulled the covers up a little higher on Ianto's shoulders and smiled. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you up when it's time for your next dose of pain meds."

Which sounded like a magnificent idea, if Ianto did say so himself. Yawning – and subsequently wincing as it strained his ribs and shoulder – he let the tension leave his body. There was no hiding anymore, no pretending – Jack had seen the wounds, both physical and emotional.

And yet, he was still there. Jack was still there, sitting by him, taking care of him.

"Thank you," Ianto muttered as he let his eyes slip closed, because he knew he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve this compassion from anyone, least of all from the man he'd betrayed.

Jack just smiled, stroking his hands through Ianto's hair that way he always did. Lisa never did that – this was something purely Jack, and it was so…soothing. "You never need to thank me for being here for you," he said, his voice low and deep and so _nice_. "I always will be, whenever you need me. Just…promise me something?"

Ianto, fighting hard to stay awake, raised his eyebrows. His tongue was too heavy to function now, not unless he absolutely had to.

"Promise you'll come to me. Whether you're hurt or sick or just want to talk…promise you'll come to me. This…this can't happen again. You could've died."

That was a tall order. Ianto was naturally a private person, and Jack…well, Jack was the man that killed his girlfriend. _No_. Jack was more than that. This was Jack, too, caring for him. The same Jack who'd saved him so many times. If he had to go to someone…maybe, just maybe, Jack was the best for the job.

Swallowing hard, Ianto tried to wring out one last coherent sentence before sleep and drugs muted him again. In the end, all he managed were two words.

"I'll try."

The smile on Jack's face grew, showing off those perfect American teeth of his. "That's all I ask. Now, get some sleep."

There was a request Ianto didn't have to think about.

As consciousness slipped once again from the younger man, Jack let the smile soften. He was okay. Ianto was okay, and that meant the world to Jack. He was confident he had convinced him to talk to him, to open up to him, and that was a step in the right direction.

Now if he could only get the young Welshman to love him, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack had been in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, when he heard it. It started as nothing more than a soft noise, niggling in the corner of his awareness, barely even catching his ear. As he stopped moving his knife across the piece of toast, though, and the scraping sounds it caused ceased, the sound wriggled to the front.

Sitting the knife down, Jack turned towards the kitchen door. The sound, seemed to be louder now, but maybe that was just because he was paying attention to it. Regardless, his interest was piqued. The noise sounded distinctly human, and since the only other humanoid in the flat was Ianto – so far as he knew, anyhow – his bedroom was where he headed.

He'd barely even started down the hall before the noises started to take form. They were soft groans, barely more than whispers, coupled with the rustling of sheets; and, he realized as he stepped into the younger man's bedroom, they were coming from Ianto.

It didn't take a genius to figure it out – Ianto was having a nightmare. A bad one, too, from the looks of it. The way he twisted in his sheets, his sweat-dampened face drawn tight into a scared grimace; the way he clenched his fists in the fabric swathing him; the way those supple lips parted around unspoken screams and a single word.

Jack didn't even have to hear the word to know what it was.

_Lisa_.

And if Jack had to take a guess about that nightmare of his, she wasn't happy to see him. Despite understanding Ianto's plight, though, he was conflicted as to how to deal with it. He could wake Ianto – save him from whatever terrors were causing him to whimper so pitifully – but then, sometimes nightmares were important. Sometimes they helped people work through things, and hell, Ianto wasn't exactly the type to appreciate someone creeping in on his privacy (and nightmares were _very_ private things).

Torn, he crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He would watch for now, and if the nightmare abated, then he would just leave and Ianto would never have to know he was there. That was an all right compromise, wasn't it?

_No, it's not_.

And it wasn't. Not as more words began to join the name, not as the sounds became more desperate, and the twists grew nearly into thrashes.

"Please…I'm sorry." Ianto's words were nearly incomprehensible, and yet, to Jack's ears, they were crystal clear. He would've liked to think he always had an understanding of Ianto, but given recent events…he wasn't too sure about that. He'd known Ianto had wounds; he hadn't known they ran so deep. "Don't…Lisa…don't hurt them."

Definitely not a happy reunion. Jack wondered if he was reliving the events in the Hub.

God, he hoped not. Even he had nightmares about that day: about the tears in Ianto's eyes, the hurt in his face. About watching the man he loved be brutalized by the love of his life, and about watching him, finally, not rise to defend her anymore. Ianto had stopped breathing that night, and the sight of him lying still on the ground of the hub was horrific enough to worm its ways into even the darkest of Jack's nightmares and make them seem somehow less worrisome in comparison.

"It's not her," Ianto whispered, and the brokenness of the sound made Jack's heart clench painfully in his chest. He'd heard those words before, heard them spoken with the same desperate vindication – vindicated and pleading all at the same time. "She wouldn't…Lisa, you can't…." Christ, he sounded so hurt, so scared. And then he didn't speak at all, words stolen in favor of empty gasps. If he was reliving that day, then it seemed he had reached the part where she turned her fury on him. That had been the worst; after all he'd done for her, all he'd _sacrificed_, she'd turned on her. Jack would've liked to say he felt the same betrayal when Ianto turned on him, but he realized now…Ianto owed them, all of them, _nothing_. Because they'd never done for him the things he'd done for them, and Jack couldn't believe it had all been done with ulterior motives. A smile like Ianto's couldn't always have a double-edge.

But now there wasn't a smile. Now, there was only distress and sweat, and the pungent smell of pure, unbridled _fear_. Choked gasps breathed from Ianto's cracked lips, like he was struggling for air past the vise-grip of some invisible specter.

Jack couldn't take it anymore, pushing off the wall and striding towards the bed with the single-minded determination of one with a sole driving goal. And as he reached the side of the bed, something in his heart broke. There were tears, lonely drops sliding one by one down the sides of Ianto's face.

He had to wake Ianto up. Tosh and Owen always poked fun at him for his "hero complex" and right now, he had to save Ianto; he had to save him from himself and the nightmares that haunted him, and all those things he'd tried to hide from that had finally caught up with him.

"Ianto," he said softly, sitting down on the side of the bed and resting a careful hand on Ianto's shoulder, partly to still him a little, and partly to try to stir him. "It's okay, Yan. It's just a nightmare." He wasn't sure if he was trying to wake him up or just calm him down – he guessed he'd be happy with either, really, as long as he could get Ianto's _pain_ to stop.

But he was too deep in the throes of it, and despite Jack's attempt to calm him, he was getting worse.

"Stop!" Ianto choked out, twisting his limbs this way and that like he was trying to escape a hold. Jack didn't remember Ianto putting up quite as much of a fight back when Lisa'd really been attacking them, but now here he was, squirming and thrashing.

He was going to hurt himself.

"Ianto!" Jack repeated. When Ianto didn't stir, he gave him a couple of light slaps on his cheek. "Ianto, wake up!" He hadn't meant to shout quite as loud as he did, but it seemed to do the trick. Ianto's eyes flew open, right as his arms lashed. Ianto's hands found his chest, trying to push him back, and when Jack tried to grab his wrists, he wrenched them back, panic flashing in his eyes as he tried once again to push Jack away. "Hey, Yan, it's me!" Jack told him as he finally managed to grab hold of those thin, flailing wrists. All the while, Ianto pulled and squirmed, until finally, Jack pulled rank. "Ianto Jones, stop!" He spat the words, wincing even as he did; he hated to be so harsh.

It worked, though. Ianto froze, and the last vestiges of sleep cleared from his fever bright, blue eyes, to be replaced by an almost equally painful mix of horror and relief. And confusion. Lots, and lots of confusion.

Since Ianto didn't seem quite capable of words just yet, Jack took over, forcing as calming a smile as he could. "You were having a nightmare," he said lamely, before quickly adding, "but I guess you probably knew that."

Good recovery.

Mercifully, Ianto was a little too stunned to call Jack on his little foot-in-mouth blooper. He just stared up at Jack, taking deep, measured breaths – in through his nose, out through his mouth – and blinking. Trying to get rid of the evidence, since Jack was still holding onto his wrists. And Jack would keep holding on, until he was sure Ianto wasn't going to flip out on him.

It seemed, though, that wouldn't be an issue. Whether it was the thrashing in his sleep, or the expiration of his pain medicine, but Ianto's face, once flushed from the nightmare, had paled drastically, and his hands were starting to shake in Jack's grasp.

"You okay there, Yan?" Jack asked. He looked about the same color as he had when he'd collapsed and hurled in the Hub, and if he was going for a repeat performance, Jack would like to be prepared.

Ianto nodded – still no words yet, then – still staring dumbly at Jack. No, not dumbly. That look, the one Ianto was wearing now, was one that Jack had seen far too many times in his life. It was the look of someone who'd just seen something. Someone who'd experienced a trauma they couldn't process, so they retreated back into their own heads. Yeah, Jack had seen that look plenty, mostly during the war.

It had never ended well.

He'd found, through far too much experience, that the best remedy for that look was actually quite simple in theory: talking. But then, a lot of things that were simple in theory proved to be a lot harder in practice, and this was certainly one of those things. All the same, he'd give it a try. There was far too much he didn't know about Ianto Jones, and now was as good a time to find it out. Maybe it was an asshole move – all right, it was _definitely_ an asshole move – but Ianto's guard was down. Now would be his best shot, and, in all fairness, it would probably help Ianto out, too.

"Yan, what did you see? What were you dreaming?" he tried to keep his voice as soft as possible, as calm. Ianto needed calm now, more than anything.

Jack watched as Ianto's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, watched the questions whirl behind Ianto's eyes at mach speed. _What should I tell him? What can I hide? What does he know?_ As the questions grew, that mask slowly fell back into place. Cold, calculating; Ianto was ever the practical one.

That wasn't what Jack wanted. "You were calling her name in her sleep," he said softly. "Lisa." Any color left in Ianto's face drained immediately, but Jack wouldn't – _couldn't_ – leave it at that. "She was there, wasn't she? In your nightmare, she was there." He clenched his jaw, watching as Ianto's carefully-constructed mask started to crack and chip. "But it's more than that. She wasn't just _in_ your nightmare, was she, Ianto?"

"Shut up, Jack…," Ianto warned. His voice was measured, but it held just the slightest waver to it. There was a plea in those words, unvoiced but roaring. _Please don't make me say it._

But he had to. He had to open up, he had to _let Jack in_, or else he couldn't help him. Ianto had to admit he was breaking before Jack could start to pull him back together. "Lisa _was_ your nightmare, wasn't she Ianto?"

And just like that, the mask exploded in a rush of fury. Ianto stopped trying to pull his hands back, instead grabbing Jack by the collar of his shirt with one shaking hand and using it to pull himself up. If the action hurt him – and Jack knew it had to – he didn't show it. "Shut the fuck up!" he screamed, and the obscenity seemed somehow dirtier spilling from the younger man's mouth. Ianto was always so proper; this wasn't like him at all.

_What _is_ like him? Do you even know?_

The answer to that question, as much as it pained him to admit, was no. A big, heaping, miserable _no_ that twisted his gut with equal parts guilt and frustration. He hated it when people hid things from him, but he hated himself for not noticing. Most of all, he hated that it was Ianto.

"Don't pretend you understand me, Jack-bloody-Harkness!" Ianto continued to seethe, unaware of Jack's inner turmoil. He had a war of his own raging behind those tear-filled eyes, and it wasn't one he was winning. "You have no idea! You never cared to! So what the hell gives you the right to make assumptions about me?"

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, and the truth of that realization hit him hard. He'd neglected him – all that time, he'd neglected him, not just before Lisa, but even after, when he needed him the most.

"I'm so sorry, Ianto," Jack whispered, his own voice cracking as moisture burned in his eyes. He had hurt this man before him so badly, scarred him just as much as those monstrous Cybermen, in his own way.

The punch that sailed into his cheek wasn't entirely unexpected, and there was surprising force behind it, but Jack let it hit him. He deserved it, and so much more. And if hitting him could take just a little of the weight of Ianto's shoulders, he could pummel him to hell and back again.

"You don't get to apologize now! It doesn't matter anymore! She's dead, Jack! She's dead and you and all the others killed her and you didn't even _try_ to understand! Were you sorry for me then too, Jack?" he cried. "When you emptied a whole fucking clip in her body? When you made me watch as you fed her to the bloody pterodactyl?" There was no stopping it now. The words bubbled forth from Ianto's lips like the tears streaming down his face. Fury seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright, his whole body rigid with pain from the wounds he'd never even told them he'd had. "What about when that monster held a cleaver to my throat in the Beacons? When they beat me with sticks and bats and stuck me with knives like an animal in the slaughterhouse? Did you feel sorry for me then, Jack?

"What about them? You didn't kill them, Jack, and they killed more people than Lisa ever did!" Ianto was sobbing, his face twisted and agonized. "You want a monster? What about them? Or better yet, why don't you just look in a fucking mirror? How much blood do you have on your hands, Jack?" His voice cracked, and he seemed unable to speak through the tears anymore. But then, he did. "You killed her," he sobbed. It was so subdued now, so _broken. _

Jack did the only thing he could: he let go of Ianto's wrists and wrapped his arms around his slender shoulders, hugging him tight against his chest.

"You killed her!" Ianto shouted into his chest, pounding his fists into Jack's chest as his tears soaked through Jack's shirt. "You took her away from me! She was my everything!"

"I know," Jack choked out, rocking Ianto back and forth as he stroked his hands through his hair. "And I really am so, so sorry."

"That's not enough! She was all I had! Everything I did was for her! What do I have left if I don't have her? I'm alone now, Jack! She was the only one that ever cared about me as anything more than an errand boy or a quick shag, and now she's gone! There's no one left to care. I'm all alone, and it hurts." By the end, it seemed all the fight had left him, leaving in its place shaking shoulders and weak, desperate sobs.

And finally, they were at the route of the matter. Ianto didn't think anyone cared, didn't think he had anyone left for him in this world. He was letting himself waste away, because he didn't think anyone would miss him when he was gone.

Jack couldn't bring Lisa back to life, couldn't undo the atrocities that had been done to the broken young man at the hands of those monstrous cannibals, but loneliness…that was something he could help.

Ianto wouldn't believe him if he just told him he was there for him; he would have to show him, and that would take time. For now, he could only hope to soothe the pain a little, and maybe start to mend a few of the wounds Owen couldn't have fixed.

He pulled the weeping man closer, lacing his fingers through his tousled hair in that way he knew he liked, rocking him back and forth slowly. "Shh," he soothed, his voice low and soft as tears slipped down his own cheeks. "You're not alone, Yan. Not anymore, and never again, I swear."

"You say that now," Ianto said, with the most hollow, skeletal laugh Jack had ever heard. It hurt more than the tears.

"And I mean it," Jack said firmly. He would get through to him. He had to. "I'm here, Ianto, and I'll be here as long as you need me."

Ianto let out a weak little noise, like a mix between a whimper and a sob. "Please don't," he whispered, barely audible through Jack's clothing. "Don't make promises you won't keep."

A smile crept on Jack's face – not a happy one, but a smile all the same. It was nice to see that some things hadn't changed in the young archivist; he was still stubborn as a mule. Still, he was stubborn about the wrong then.

Jack pushed Ianto back just enough for him to be able to see Jack's face, to see the honesty there, in every fiber of his being. Tipping his finger under Ianto's chin, he forced those pained blue eyes to meet his.

"I don't."

Brief as they were, the words carried with them a weight that seemed to leave Ianto speechless as he searched. For hidden lies, for insincerity, for _validation_.

Whatever it was he was looking for, he seemed to find it, and for the briefest moment, surprise sparked across his features, and a sort of…hope. Just as quick as it came, though, it was gone, replaced by tension and strain that made the muscle in his jaw stand out and the veins in his neck pull taut.

"Jack," he whispered finally, his voice weak and reedy.

"What is it, Yan?" Jack asked, brushing his thumb along Ianto's lightly-bruised jaw.

A ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of Ianto's lips, even as fresh streams of stubborn tears dripped down his pale cheeks. "I don't suppose it's time for those drugs you promised."

And at that, Jack chuckled, because even though Ianto was in pain, at least this time, there was definitely something he could do about it. "All right, Yan," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to Ianto's forehead. "Let's get you medicated."


	5. Chapter 5

_It was dark. Everywhere it was dark, and bathed in a low red light that gave Ianto the impression that the entire Hub had been bathed in blood. It was so hot there, and the air was thick as alarms beat in Ianto's ears. Something had gone wrong. Something familiar. Something…_

_ The sound of metal on metal caught Ianto's attention, and he turned, searching for the source of the sound. A niggling voice in the back of his head told him that he should be running from that sound, not trying to locate it, but he couldn't figure out why. What was there to be afraid of here? Surely there was something, or else his heart wouldn't have been pounding like it was. His palms were sweating, and he could barely keep a grip on the gun in his hand, and—_

_ Why did he have a gun? What was he supposed to be shooting? Or, better yet, was there something about to be shooting at him?_

_ "Ianto!" the shout caught him off guard, and he turned to see a familiar figure shrouded in those damn red lights that beat down on his black button-up shirt, reflected off those braces of his, and flickered off his blue eyes. _

_ But, of course, all of that paled in comparison to the observation that Ianto made next. Jack was standing there, in the centre of the Hub with him, and in his hand, he had a gun. _

_ And he was pointing it at Ianto. _

_ "Jack?" He cursed himself as his voice cracked, but there were bigger concerns. _

_ "Don't move." There was a harshness in Jack's tone that seemed so foreign. It was the tone he used on enemies, and only particularly bad ones at that, and yet there he was directing it at Ianto. It was almost more frightening than the gun. _

_ Logic and self-preservation rooted him to the spot. If the man with the gun said don't move, he wouldn't move. At least, not until he figured out what was going on. For all he knew, Jack had a reason to be pointing that gun at him. It wouldn't surprise him – Jack didn't shoot good people, and Ianto had long since begun to doubt his place in that category. It was much more likely that he'd done something wrong. _

_ If only he could figure out what it was. _

_ The sound of metal on metal was growing louder, echoing through the Hub, ringing in Ianto's ears and sending shivers rattling down his spine. It was terrifying, mostly because he didn't know _why_ he was scared. _

_ Then the screams started. He knew those screams, knew those voices. Gun be damned, he wasn't just going to stand there when someone was in trouble, especially not his teammates. _

_ He didn't know if he was really surprised or not when the gun didn't go off behind him, but he didn't exactly have time to devote to it. The cries were coming from the morgue, and when he got there, he saw something that put an end to any logical thought that might have been running through his head. _

_ "Lisa…." The words left his lips riding on the last breath of air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. It didn't make sense! What was Lisa doing there? He'd seen them kill her, seen them pump bullets into her cyber body and then into that poor girl. How was she here? How was she human again, just like he remembered her?_

_ And why was everyone on the ground? Tosh, Owen, Gwen…they were all there, sprawled out. Tosh was lying on her front, but her eyes stared up at him, her neck twisted about so that her open, empty eyes could bore into his very soul. _

_ The red lights continued, bathing the walls and the floors in that red light that looked so much like blood. _

_ And then he realized…it _was_ blood. Their blood. Owen's and Gwen's and Tosh's, all spreading out on the floor in creeping, weeping puddles until they joined around Ianto's feet. Lisa was covered in it, too, her delicate hands dripping ichor from too-long fingernails. _

_ "What have you done?" he breathed. The images were burning in his eyes, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to look away, even as a voice spoke from behind him. _

_ "Ianto, get back!" It was Jack, circling around him to stand opposite Lisa within Ianto's sights. He had his gun trained on her, but his gaze was aimed directly at Ianto. Her eyes, in turn, were on Jack, and he watched as a look of cold steel fell on her face. _

_ Jack was too close. _

_ "Jack, look ou—" He tried to warn him, but it was too late. Jack fired, right as Lisa's hand flew into Jack's chest. The sickening sound of crunching bones mixed with gunfire as Lisa's hand emerged from the cavity of Jack's chest, clutching one dripping, pulsing mass of muscle and bloody flesh. _

_ Jack's heart. _

_ Oh God, she'd ripped Jack's heart out. Blue eyes fixed on Ianto, a mix of hurt and betrayal, as Jack fell to the ground. Dead. Jack was dead, and Lisa had killed him, just like she'd killed everyone else._

_ She turned to him, now, hand still holding Jack's stolen heart, and began her approach. Only then did Ianto seem to remember the piece of metal clutched tightly in his shaking fingers, and he raised it. _

_ Lisa just smiled, and for a single horrifying moment, Ianto was reminded of the smile she always wore back before Canary Wharf. Then he saw that spark of mania there – one that had never been present back then. "You can't kill me, Ianto," she said. "You tried. Oh, how you tried. But you can't kill me. You never could kill me." _

_ She stepped closer, but Ianto couldn't move. He couldn't stop staring: at Lisa, at Tosh and Owen and Gwen, but mostly at Jack. Seeing him there, his blood joining the others' on the floor, it made something in Ianto break. He didn't understand it – why seeing Jack dead hurt him so much more, even though he knew that he could come back. _

_ "You can't kill anything," she said, that smile never leaving her face. "Couldn't kill the cybermen that took me, couldn't kill those crazy, pathetic humans, couldn't even kill me to save all your little friends. You just let them die like you always do. Poor, helpless, _useless_ little Ianto." _

_ She was right in front of him now, and he couldn't even bring himself to budge. "This isn't you," he whispered. "You're not Lisa." _

_ "You're right." Her hand snapped out, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him clear into the air. Her fingernails dug into his throat, and he felt the warm sting of blood as it welled over the cuts and ran down his neck. "Because you let them kill me, and now you let me return the favor." Her fingers tightened, and Ianto could feel his lungs screaming. "Weak, pathetic little Ianto. You can't even look at me, the girl you said you loved. Too ashamed?"_

_ She was right; he couldn't look at her. Not because he was ashamed – though, he was, and about more than just that – but because he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Jack's still form, bleeding on the ground. He couldn't stop staring at those sightless eyes, the open mouth, parted around a scream that never got to sound. And it was his fault. It was all his fault. _

_ A loud shot rang out, startling Ianto, and suddenly, the hand around his throat loosened, dropping him to the ground. In his right hand, a heavy weight pulled at him, and he let it drop. The gun fell to the ground, now covered in the lifeblood of a new victim. Just like that, Lisa crumpled to the floor, a hole in her chest right where Jack's was. _

_ And then he realized what he had done. He'd shot her. He, Ianto Jones, had just killed Lisa. _

_ Numb feet pushed him forward, and suddenly he found himself kneeling beside the still form. Only, it wasn't the one he was expecting. Instead of rich, dark skin, his hands found the tan ivory of another, and instead of a soft, delicate form, he found himself wrapping his arms around firm muscles and broad shoulders. He hefted him up into his lap, cradling this important corpse against his chest._

_ And sitting there, knee-deep in the blood of his friends and the one he loved the most – was that Lisa, or Jack? Ianto couldn't tell anymore, though only one of them now rested in his arms – surrounded by the bodies of the people he'd sworn to protect, Ianto's head fell back on slumped shoulders. _

_ He screamed. _

_ Over the scream, _through_ it, he could almost hear a voice. It was saying something, repeating something, calling and urging. _

_ "Ianto…"_

_ He was all alone, surrounded by death and blood and horrors that could never be unseen. _

_ "Ianto…" _

_ No one was coming for him; even if Jack woke up, this would be the end of him. _

_ "Ianto!"_

Ianto was suddenly aware of arms around him, of hands in his hair, and of a gentle voice whispering to him.

"Shh, Yan, it was just a nightmare." That voice, it was the one from his dreams. And that smell was unmistakable, filling Ianto's senses and, to his surprise, comforting him. Something purely Jack…Ianto couldn't pretend not to know why it was so comforting. Not after the dream he'd just had. He'd gone to Jack, not to Lisa. They'd both been dead, and Jack was the one he'd cried for, the one he'd screamed for.

And that's when it hit him: he, Ianto Jones, was in love with Jack-bloody-Harkness. Even after everything that had happened, with Lisa, with Torchwood, with everything, he couldn't deny it. Jack was there for Ianto now when no one else was, and, as he held him, rocking him back and forth, Ianto realized he always had been.

It made him feel safe. _Jack_ made him feel safe, something he hadn't felt in years. So much time had been spent in fear and worry, even before they'd discovered Lisa. Always worrying about being discovered, or after, worrying about each sip of coffee he took, every corner he turned, lest there be a retcon pill or the barrel of a gun waiting for him. He knew what he'd done was wrong, and he'd deserve it if it came, but he was just so tired of being _afraid_ of it.

He looked up, and suddenly he realized just how close he was to Jack. He could feel the other man's heartbeat against his chest – a heart that was still where it was supposed to be, thank God – and now, he could feel his breath on his face. Their noses were barely millimeters apart, and he found he couldn't blink away from the blue eyes that stared into his.

Jack didn't blink, but Ianto could hear him swallowing audibly. He sensed it too – the tension between them, the electricity. It was nearly tangible. His heart still pounding form his nightmare, no doubt beating a rhythm that even Jack could feel from their proximity, Ianto found it hard to breathe. Or maybe that was just the pheromones.

Either way, as Jack leaned in, slowly closing the gap between them, Ianto didn't protest. He wanted this. He wanted so desperately to feel something other than this pain, this _terror_ that plagued his every waking and unwaking moment. And even if Jack didn't feel the same way, just for now, maybe he could pretend.

When their lips finally touched, it sent a spark through Ianto's very being. His eyes slipped closed of their own accord, and he just let himself _feel_. And how marvelous it felt, Jack's lips moving on his slow and gentle, and when Jack's tongue traced along his lips, he parted them, happily deepening the kiss that was so unlike any other he'd ever had. With Jack in the past, it had always been nothing but gnashing teeth and desperate, lusting hands. It was so frantic, so aggressive; it was nothing like this. There was passion in this, but it was deeper than that – at least, Ianto wanted to think it was. It felt that way.

Fingers laced through his hair, cradling his neck and pulling him closer until the need for air forced them apart. Ianto thought he might have happily suffocated, if only that moment could go on.

And then he saw the look on Jack's face, and all the previous ease and comfort he'd felt was squeezed out by the vises that coiled around his gut. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look happy. Conflicted, maybe, was the best word for it.

"Yan," Jack began, caressing Ianto's cheek. He couldn't even enjoy the gesture through the tension. "I need to tell you something. It's about what you said yesterday."

Had it really been a day already? Ianto could hardly remember any of it, through the nightmares and the medicinal daze, no doubt courtesy of Owen's affinity for heavy-duty opioids. And on that note, he had no idea what Jack was talking about, though he got the feeling that it wasn't a good thing.

"I'm sorry." It was the first thing to come to Ianto's mind, and he figured it was merited even _if_ it wasn't what Jack was going for. Not that an apology could ever make up for what he'd done.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Yan…Actually, I'm the one that should be doing the apologizing." He grimaced. "You said something yesterday, and it got me thinking – I've had a lot of time to think, hanging around here – and…I got the impression we have a bit of a misunderstanding."

And here it came. Couldn't Jack just let him have his delusions, just for one day? A hopeful misunderstanding was better than a crushing understanding. He'd had enough troubles for a good while, thankyouverymuch. Jack didn't have to add to it; not today, he didn't.

"Please don't...," he mumbled.

But Jack wouldn't be deterred. "No, you need to understand this. You said you thought you were just a quick shag, and I got the feeling you were talking about me."

_And that's the way it's staying,_ Ianto finished for himself. There was no point in denying it, though. "I was," he said quietly. It wasn't like he had to worry about hurting the other's feelings – Jack was the king of emotional distance.

"You're wrong," Jack said. For a moment, Ianto was confused, but Jack continued before Ianto could get himself together enough to ask a question. "You're not just a quick shag. I…" Jack hesitated, like he couldn't quite find the words he wanted to say. Ianto imagined it wasn't a very familiar sensation for him, so he gave him his time. "I care for you, Yan. As more than just a teammate or employee or whatever it is you think you are to me." He tipped Ianto's chin up, forcing the young man to look him in the eye. "I told you you're not alone, Ianto, and I meant it. _I _care for you." Brushing his hand through Ianto's hair gently, he leaned in closer, their lips barely a hair's breadth apart. "I love you, Ianto Jones."

And then he kissed him, with more affection and passion and _warmth_ than ever before. Ianto reveled in the feeling, cherishing it; he'd gone so long alone, so this, this whatever it was, was enough to shake him to his very core. In a good way, of course, but still, it shook him. His head was whirring, and all he knew was the feeling of Jack all around him, in all his senses, and for the first time since he could remember, Ianto truly felt safe.

When they broke for air, Jack looked at him, his eyes searching and nervous in a way that looked utterly out of place on the normally confident man. "So?" he asked.

"So?" Ianto repeated. He was hardly with-it enough to be articulate.

Jack pulled a face. "Well, is that okay?"

_No, because I'd rather be irrelevant for all but the occasional office shag._ Ianto bit the retort back. Being sour would ruin the moment, and he was enjoying this too much. The conversation was heavy, but it was about good things, and that was something Ianto would never take for granted again.

Instead, he nodded. "I don't know what you want from this," he began hesitantly, "but I do appreciate you. For everything you've done for me…for taking me into Torchwood, for not killing me when common sense says you should've dropped me where I stood…for being here."

Ianto could tell that Jack was trying to be content with that. Really, the man was putting up a valiant effort. He'd learned, though, that Jack Harkness just didn't do well with the abstract, and he was really putting that to the test. Not intentionally, no, but whereas Jack avoided the abstract like the plague, Ianto couldn't help shrouding himself in it. It was safer.

"You 'appreciate' me…what does that even mean?" His voice was gentle, almost playful even, but Ianto could sense he was fraying at the edges. He really wasn't trying to upset him; _he_ himself wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He knew he'd get there eventually, it was just a matter of tiptoeing around it until he finally just tripped and fell down the bloody rabbit hole.

Or, he could always just dive in. He'd never tried that before. "I think…" he began slowly. He had to choose each word carefully. Did he want to say "like?" No, no that wasn't strong enough for the pain he felt watching Jack die, for the worry he felt watching Jack fight, even after everything. "Care" maybe – but no, that was too generic. So then, what if he said love? What if he did take that leap? The emotions were strong enough, conflicted as they were – stronger than nearly anything he'd ever felt before, and all focused on this one man. It was either love, or the fiercest hate he'd ever experienced; then again, maybe it was both. He had to admit it to himself, though: even if he didn't hate Jack, he bloody well loved him, God save his miserable soul.

Taking in a deep breath, Ianto squared his shoulders and commanded the corners of his lips up into a shaky smile.

"I think it means I love you too."


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Ianto noticed when he woke up was that something was missing. He wasn't sure what – the pain was still there, roaring furiously now that he guessed the medicine had worn off; he was still in his flat, still swathed in his comfortable blankets; he was still warm – but something there was just something…off.

Then he realized what it was. It was the smell. The smell was different; it smelled like his apartment, like coffee grounds and laundry detergent. There was supposed to be something else.

_Fifty-first century pheromones. You people have no idea._

That was it, then. Jack was gone. After what had happened earlier – last night, judging by the clock blaring on the table beside his bed – he actually thought Jack would be there. Jack had said he loved him, but then…he wasn't there. He'd just left.

Ianto cursed himself. Of course Jack was gone. He was Captain Jack Harkness; he didn't do relationships. Ianto reasoned he'd probably just backed him into a corner; he'd say what he thought Ianto wanted him to say, and disappear when he got the chance.

But no, he was being spiteful. Jack was a good guy, and he knew that, it was just…he really thought he'd be there.

Suddenly, he heard the front door shut, and quickly pushed himself up. As it turned out, that hadn't been the best idea, and pain shot through his abdomen, sending all the breath out of his lungs in a choked gasp. Now that he'd tried, though, he couldn't just lie there in his pajamas. He was better than that, _stronger_ than that. And besides, if it wasn't Jack, then he sure as hell didn't want to be lying there in bed while some stranger traipsed about his flat.

Steeling himself, he pushed himself up just a little bit slower, swinging his right leg over the side of the bed. His left was another story. Owen had replaced his more flexible brace with this metal and neoprene monstrosity that stretched from his mid-thigh to halfway down his calf, and yet still, even so much as thinking about moving it made it ache, and when he tried wriggling his toes, he felt his stomach flip.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth_.

He breathed through it, turning on the bed slowly, finally managing to get the limb off the side of the bed. He had to pause there for a moment, though; his head was swimming and he felt like he was going to be sick. Once his stomach was steady, though, he pushed himself up, balancing precariously on his right leg and holding onto his dresser for support as the world pitched and pivoted around him.

Once again, he had to wait, only this time, he couldn't bring himself to wait as long. He was a patient man, normally, save for when it came to his own weaknesses, and now he couldn't bear to just stand there like an invalid. He was capable, and not to mention, there was someone walking around his flat, and from the sounds of things, they were getting closer.

Taking in a deep breath, he started to move his left leg forward, getting ready to take the first step. The footsteps were getting closer, too heavy to be female but definitely too light to be Jack. Jack always walked so purposefully, so strongly. And there he was, pathetic little Ianto, unable to so much as take a step.

Clenching his fist, he let the anger burn in his gut. He wouldn't be pathetic; he wouldn't be weak. He shifted his weight forward, his foot nearing the ground. Closer, closer, and finally—

Agony shot through his every molecule, and before he could help himself, he cried out. He was falling, that much he knew, and it was going to hurt like hell when he hit the ground.

Only, he didn't hit the ground. Hands grabbed his shoulders, and he fell into a solid chest – not as solid as Jack's, but more substantial than his own present mess of bruises and broken bones.

"Jesus, Ianto!"

And suddenly he knew who this person was.

"Owen," he choked out as the doctor wrapped his arms around Ianto's middle, carefully avoiding the breaks and cracks there. He was torn between being humiliated and relieved, because there was no way he was getting anywhere on his own, and it was hard to tell which would be worse: being found like this, or being found lying in the ground, probably half-unconscious from the fall.

Then again, at least that way he wouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment.

"C'mon, back to bed with you," Owen said through gritted teeth. "Thank God you're not heavy, then, aye?" Owen had been on him about his weight ever since he'd come back from his suspension after Lisa. All the same, Ianto knew he wasn't being much help, so he tried to get a little bit more of his weight back on his own feet. The right was fine, but he was off-balance, so he tried his left again. Maybe this time, it would be better.

It wasn't. Even as his bare foot just _touched_ the carpet of his bedroom, pain lanced through his leg and white flashed in his eyes. He managed to bite back the cry that time, but only just, and a noise still slipped from his throat.

"I've got you, mate," Owen said, and somehow, the wiry man managed to get Ianto back to his bed. As soon as he felt the mattress at the back of his knees, Ianto wanted nothing more than to just fall back onto it – his head was spinning, his heart thudding, and his whole _being_ was in pain, and it seemed that had something to do with his standing up – but Owen held him firm, upright. "Slowly now, Iants; don't want to undo all my hard work now, do we?"

Ianto hoped the question was rhetorical, because he didn't want to be rude. Somehow, though, he got the impression that throwing up the toast Jack had made him eat before his last dose of pain medicine might be just a little ruder.

Owen helped him lower himself to sit on the bed, his left leg stretched awkwardly in front of him. He went to lie down, but once again, Owen stopped him. "Not so fast, mate. Jack said you were asleep when he left, and I was apt to let you stay that way for a while, but since you're already up, we might as well get your check-up out of the way." He straightened back up. "Think you'll be all right for a bit while I go fetch my bag? I kind of left it in a hurry in your settee when I heard you thumping about in here."

It took a second for Ianto to process what he'd said, and after a moment, he nodded. That, as it turned out, had not been a good idea – his concussion, at least, didn't think so. Owen was, as always, ready for it, and a rubbish bin appeared in his lap just in time for him to be sick into it. Suddenly the pain in his leg didn't seem so bad, now that the retching strained his aching ribs and tore at the gash on his side. He felt the moisture well in his eyes from the force of it, from the pain and the helplessness, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Owen was beside him in an instant, rubbing his back and holding a cool hand to his forehead – Owen the doctor always had cold hands, and for once, Ianto was glad for it. "Think it's safe to say you've gone and overdone it," he said, a hint of a laugh in his voice. Not the mocking, derisive sort of laugh his friend was so apt to, but a sort of comforting laugh.

Thankfully, he wasn't sick for long, and though the nausea lingered, he was pretty sure his stomach wouldn't be purging itself anymore. Apparently unaffected, Owen took the rubbish bin and set it aside. "I'll take care of it later," he assured as he rose once again. "Do me a favor and don't move, yeah? I'll be right back."

He needn't have worried. Ianto had learned his lesson for now, and didn't so much as budge while Owen was gone. He was trying too hard to keep his vision steady, to keep upright as his body begged him to lie down. Owen was right; he had overdone it, and he was paying for it now.

Still, he'd had a reason. He wanted to see Jack. From what Owen had said, Jack hadn't been gone long – he'd still been sleeping when he'd left, and he hadn't been sleeping all that long.

When Owen came back in, toting the massive bag in which he carried his medical supplies, Ianto turned to him. "Owen?" he asked.

The doctor, who had previously been rifling through his bag, turned to Ianto. "What is it, mate?"

"Where is he?" Even to himself, his voice sounded hollow and pitiful, and he hated himself for it. He had no right to sound so desperate – to yearn so much for the man that had taken so much from him. He'd hated Jack for what he did. He'd hated him for killing Lisa, for ignoring him, for letting those monsters in the Beacons take him.

But now, he felt so small without him. Because he couldn't really hate Jack; he knew that now. He couldn't hate him for killing Lisa, because it wasn't Jack who'd really done it. Torchwood One was responsible for her death; the only thing Jack had killed was the memory and the foolish hope that maybe he could bring her back. He couldn't hate him for never noticing, because _he'd_ made it that way; he'd meant to be a shadow, so that no one would care when he betrayed them. Distance made the lies easier, and Jack couldn't be blamed for that. And he couldn't hate him for the Beacons, because he'd seen the look in his eyes. He'd seen the fear in Jack's eyes, the horror when he burst through that wall. He'd seen the worry there, even if he'd chosen to ignore it at the time.

Besides, it wasn't Jack's fault he was sitting there now.

"You mean Jack?" Owen asked, effectively pulling Ianto back into the present. "Administrative work; something to do with the bleeding government. They'd only talk to Jack, and apparently it was important."

Ianto went to nod, but thought better of it. "Makes sense," he muttered. It was nice to know he had a reason to be gone; it let Ianto think for a moment that maybe he hadn't left because of their…discussion.

Owen put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry so much, Iants; it doesn't become you. He'll be back quick as he can, there's no doubting that. Until then, you've got me to keep you company." He smiled that cheeky Owen smile, and then let his hand fall from Ianto's shoulder. "All right, then, let's get this thing over with," he said, and because he knew Ianto couldn't move around all that well just yet, he started helping him undress.

Ianto didn't protest, because he knew he couldn't do it by himself, but that didn't stop him from being uncomfortable. With each layer gone, he lost some of his protection from the world; the fact that he was at the mercy of another in this exposure only made it worse.

Being the perceptive man he was – even if many would doubt that claim – Owen tried to be as unthreatening as possible. As he helped him out of his shirt, he tried to strike up a conversation to keep Ianto's mind off it.

"Myfanwy's been missing you," he said. Ianto always did fancy that bloody bird, and it seemed he'd picked the right subject. Ianto didn't beam or anything, but there was a certain light to his eyes, so he continued. As he started to help Ianto out of his trousers, he kept on. "She's been all out of sorts, since none of us can seem to remember to bring chocolate. You've spoiled her, that's what I think."

That did get a smile out of Ianto, though it fell as Owen started pulling the trousers off his legs, leaving Ianto in just his boxer-briefs. The bloke was really just too shy; Owen didn't know why, but he was sure it wasn't a pleasant story, and it certainly wasn't any of his business. As a doctor, it was his job to make his patient as comfortable as possible; as Ianto's friend, it was his job to do more than that. He just wished he knew how.

"You should've seen what she did when Gwen offered her a toffee. Thought she was apt to peck her bloody eyes out." He carefully started cutting away at the bandages around Ianto's torso; it was practically a second shirt, between the bindings on his rib, shoulder, and belly. He looked like half a mummy and half a walking bruise.

He could feel Ianto shaking now, and he hoped it was because he was cold. He still had a little bit of a fever clinging to him, but not much of one. No, he knew what it was; Ianto was a bundle of nerves – had been ever since the Beacons, or hell, even Lisa. Maybe even before then, but they hadn't noticed. None of them had noticed, and Owen hated himself for that. He was supposed to be a doctor, supposed to be able to tell when people were hurting, and he hadn't known.

Well, now he did, and he was going to do whatever he could to make it right.

Once he got the bandages off Ianto's middle, he set about examining him, all the while keeping up light conversation. He wanted Ianto to relax, but he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't blame him for it, either. He just felt bad, making an already nervous man more nervous. Still, it was a necessary evil.

Ianto was actually doing alright. Surprisingly well, considering the stories, the horrors, that each of those wounds held. The shaking was getting worse, though, and Ianto's fingers were twisting in the bed sheets on either side of him. It was like water building up behind a dam, and Owen was just waiting until that dam eventually broke.

It didn't take long. He'd finished checking out all of the bruises, feeling around his ribs to make sure everything was still where it was supposed to be. That was no barrel of chuckles in and of itself, but then he started on the cut on Ianto's neck. His fingers had no sooner brushed along the angry red line when a strangled noise escaped the younger man's throat. Owen turned his gaze from the cut to Ianto's face, where he was saddened (but not altogether surprised) to see tears finally beginning to well over from his dark, bloodshot eyes.

At that point, he reckoned the exam could wait. Ianto 's emotional wounds needed more tending than the physical ones, and Owen intended to see to both. "C'mere, mate," he sighed sadly but soothingly, taking a seat on the bed next to Ianto and pulling him into his chest. He was careful to avoid putting tension on any of his wounds. "You always get the worst of it, don't you?" First with Lisa, and now with the Beacons; the poor guy just couldn't catch a break. It was wearing him down hard, and it absolutely killed Owen that he hadn't noticed sooner.

Ianto didn't reply – Owen was pretty sure he couldn't have even if he'd wanted to, through the choking _sadness_ that seemed to weep from his very soul. It hurt Owen to see it, hurt him to feel it, and he couldn't help feeling it. He wasn't the most empathetic person, but this was just painful to see, this broken down man, who still somehow managed to be strong enough to hold the whole team together. He'd seen it in the time Ianto was out – Torchwood wasn't the same without him.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp intake of breath, and looked to see Ianto wincing. "Sorry, did I hurt you?" he asked.

Ianto shook his head, but then let out a weak chuckle, and nodded resignedly. "Not you; just hurts in general," he admitted, his voice still reedy from the tears, but he sounded better. Really, he did.

Owen smiled at him and let him go in favor of standing up. "Now that's something I can fix right quick," he said, fishing around in his back until his fingers found what he was looking for. "Here we are." He popped open the lid to the meds and shook out a pair into his hand. "Drug up, Tea Boy."

Ianto couldn't help smiling at the nickname, and took the pills with two shaking hands. Owen had a glass of water waiting for him after he swallowed them.

Ten minutes later, Ianto was unconscious.

"And that's why they pay me the big bucks," Owen chuckled to himself, and continued the exam to the low murmur of the telly in the front room.


End file.
